


A Bit Sketchy

by rain_sleet_snow



Category: Primeval
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-31
Updated: 2009-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3265253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem about private sketchbooks when you live in the same flat as an inquisitive teenager is that they rarely stay private for long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit Sketchy

            Liz abandoned her homework (for God’s sake, why the hell would anyone want to use a subjunctive in everyday speech? Even if they were Spanish?) and decided to amuse herself and simultaneously check on her father’s exasperation levels by taking a look at his sketchbook.

 

            The sketchbook in question had been discovered two months earlier, when Liz was busy ransacking her father’s study for the spare mobile phone charger, and had been the cause of much hilarity and a certain amount of awe. It contained almost equal parts cartoons and serious drawings; Liz’s particular favourite of the cartoons was the one of Connor Temple hugging the anomaly detector with its siren at full blast, tears in his eyes, a toolbox at his feet and the caption _It’s no good, darling, they don’t appreciate your siren call the way I do floating_ over the picture. The serious drawings were different; there were several sketches of her she hadn’t noticed him doing, and one of Nicky, taken from a photograph that dated from well before the Divorce. Her favourite of these was a recent one of Jamie; drawn from life in the hospital, Jamie was wearing a woolly cap on his head and a slight smile on his face, staring out at the watcher –he must have been looking straight at Dad- his eyes full of a sly understanding. _I know what you’re thinking_ , his expression said.

 

            Either way, Liz liked looking at it, and she had discovered that it was a valuable indicator of how stressed her father was; usually, the ratio of cartoons to stress, assuming that stress was in arbitrary units, was 1:1, and a dangerous level was three or more cartoons per week.

 

            _I think I’ve been overdoing the science revision_ , Liz thought to herself, and flicked the light-switch in the study, then opened a bottom drawer, lifted out some files and folders, and pulled out the sketchbook. It was a good sketchbook, the paper the proper weight for sketches; James Lester was serious about his drawing.

 

            She tucked the book under her arm and meandered out into the living-room-cum-kitchen again, where she sat down at the large pine table. The flat Liz shared with her father was not one for vertigo sufferers; near the top of a very modern block of flats near the river, one of the living-room walls was one big window. She glanced out- it was raining, of course, this being England, and she spared a moment to be grateful that she’d got home before it started, but the view was still quite spectacular. Her father argued otherwise, but she was pretty much convinced the view was the number one reason he’d bought the flat.

 

            Liz was not worried that her father would come home and catch her looking through his private sketchbook, although she was quite aware he’d be annoyed if she did- it would be like him reading her diary. He often worked late, had done so for years: his office hours were very irregular, what with the inconsiderate habit dinosaurs had of popping in and out of anomalies without conforming to a proper schedule. It was a good thing Liz was relatively self-sufficient, and that they lived in a block of flats with excellent security, or Lester would worry about leaving her on her own.

 

            Liz opened the sketchbook, and started to flick through, looking at some of her old favourites. A sketch of Professor Cutter looking Scottishly sulky. Jenny Lewis giving a speech- some of these sketches had been done in pen and stuck in later, presumably the product of extreme boredom during meetings, but they were all full of life. That was Lester’s trick- Jamie’s, too –to capture enough of the expression, and of the person, to make the sketch a scarily good likeness.

 

            She flipped over page after page, sometimes smiling or laughing. Nicky, looking petulant. Jamie, looking innocent. A cartoon of Abby belabouring Connor with an oversized frying pan. Acidic political commentary on Sarah Palin.

 

            After about ten minutes, Liz reached the new sketches. The first, she blushed and laughed at; it was a full-length portrait of herself in Combined Cadet Force gear, detailed down to the smudges on her face, the badge on her cap and her Cadet Sergeant’s insignia, feet spread, hands planted firmly on hips and looking uncompromising. The second was a cartoon, as political as the Sarah Palin one, but this time involving Peter Mandelson being made to walk the plank off a rather snazzy yacht.

 

            The third wiped the smile from Liz’s face, and she stared at it for a long time.

 

            “Holy shit,” she whispered, and got up and made some coffee before she did anything else, that image revolving in her mind.

 

            Leaning against the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, she thought about what she’d seen, tried to analyse it. It wasn’t that it was explicit or obscene or offensive in any way, it was just- it looked like Dad loved it, loved the –

 

            “And again I say, holy shit,” Liz said aloud as the kettle boiled and she poured its contents into the cafetière.

 

            _Dads are not supposed to fall in love_ , she reflected, carrying her mug over to the table a little later and putting it down carefully well away from the sketch, as something told her Dad would kill her if she spilt coffee on it. _Not even divorced Dads. I mean, I knew this could happen, we even talked about it a bit, but..._

 

            She glanced at the picture again. _If he was going to fall in love, I kind of expected a girlfriend, not a boyfriend._

 

            It didn’t help that she knew the man; his name was Lieutenant Jon Lyle. He was pretty cool. He liked caving. He’d discussed the Bloody Nightmare with her, called it an impressive example of home-made explosives and asked about how she and the two boys had made it. He didn’t think she was stupid for being sick after the troodontid attack.

 

            Cold fingers gripped her. What if Dad had lied to her about having an affair? What if Mum and Dad had divorced _because_ -

 

            No. No. Calm down and drink your nice coffee, Elizabeth Alison Lester, and for God’s sake use your head. Dad might be really good at a public facade, even a private one, but in his art he was as open as any child. Someone he cared about as much as he cared about the person in this picture? Come on. There would have been other drawings, and she’d have found them eventually. It had been, what, three years? More, even, if you included the time the divorce took to go through. Say five years. By now, Liz would have found something, or Dad would have introduced her. He hadn’t- Ditzy had, after the trudy-whatsit attack. And the guy hadn’t been awkward at all, and you’d expect a little awkwardness if he was secretly sleeping with her father.

 

            Furthermore, Liz would have liked to think that she would have _noticed_ if her father and a member of the Special Forces had been having wild passionate sex just down the corridor.

 

            She closed her eyes for a moment, then picked up the sketchbook again and examined the drawing as dispassionately as she could.

 

            Firstly, it was bloody good, as usual. There was life in it, light and dark and texture. Jon Lyle was sprawled out across the bed, sheets tangled round him, facing the artist; there was a slight smile on his face, but his eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted in sleep. A scar had been picked out on his torso, one hand reached out, half-curled but relaxed. But none of this was what had made Liz stare so much, although it certainly contributed: it was the fact that whoever drew this had really cared about the person they were drawing. Given that she had last looked at the sketchbook a week ago, it had to be a recent development- this had been drawn from life, not from a photograph –so maybe it was a bit previous to use the word ‘love’.

 

            “Shit,” Liz said conversationally, this being her third profanity in as many sentences. “I know when this happened, too.”

 

            And she did. She had spent last Friday night and quite a lot of Saturday at Juliet’s house, but apart from that when Dad had been in the house, so had she, so it must have been then.

 

            She put the sketchbook away very carefully, so her father wouldn’t know she’d taken it out, and then she went back and sat over her coffee till it grew cold.

 

            It wasn’t the fact that her father was apparently (oh, go on, you silly bint, _say it_ ) in love with another man. It would be pretty hypocritical of her if it was, given that she’d been involved with Juliet for months. It was just a shock. It would probably be good for her Dad to have a decent relationship with a good... someone. A good guy, apparently, but Liz wasn’t exactly close-minded on that score.

 

            _Actually, I’m probably the first to know_ , Liz thought to herself, a very small smirk on her lips. _I just bet neither of them realise how deep this goes, with Dad at least- this drawing tells me that much. I just bet._

 

“And if he breaks Dad’s heart, he’ll wish he’s never been born,” Liz added matter-of-factly, and then realised she was talking to herself, rolled her eyes and took a large gulp of cold coffee, which she immediately spat out.

 

 

            _Coffee arced out of the girl’s mouth and splattered to the ground. “What was that?”_

_“That was coffee,” Ditzy said, sounding slightly injured._

_“I don’t know what that was, but it definitely wasn’t coffee,” Liz maintained, peering suspiciously into the polystyrene cup._

_A passing soldier snorted. “Butchering the coffee machine again, Ditz?”_

_“Shut up, Jon,” Ditzy said. “Oh, by the way, this is who made that nasty home-made bomb you were admiring so much. Liz Lester, Lieutenant Jon Lyle. You both like things that go bang and you both hate my coffee, so you should get along just fine.”_

 

           

            “Bleurgh,” Liz said, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and grimacing at both the memory and the taste of the coffee, bitter and chilled.

 

            She was just wiping up the spill with some kitchen towel when she realised that telling Dad she knew about him and Lyle was going to be an absolute bugger.


End file.
